


the life she had so tangled in her mesh

by incon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incon/pseuds/incon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Margaery would, could do anything for Sansa. (AU? Canon-divergence? I honestly don't know.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the life she had so tangled in her mesh

**Author's Note:**

> for quite some time, i've entertained the thought of margaery murdering for sansa. not only for ambition, but for revenge as well (and maybe because she cares for sansa so damn much and is utterly protective of her in a subtle way). it's inaccurate in the sense that - i don't know; it's a canon divergence, or an au somewhat? title from lamia by john keats.

_So pallid a moon_  
_places a crown_  
_on your red hair_  
_So ruby a moon_  
_with glory splashes onto_  
_your battered petticoat_  
_—La Complainte De La Butte_

_little thing;_ she is often greeted, with a sweet flutter and a slight murmur. Almost like birds at the passing. But then there also is _little dove_ , and she cringes at the spiteful term; at the sudden, her throat would seize and her wreath of flame trembles.

"Little thing." The sound _drips_ ; it really does. Voice is the thick latch of honey, viscous in the summered heat. _flutter_. _Her_ robes are like the prettiest of nature, a threadbare radiance that worked well with _her_ cupid face. "May I join you?"

Sansa's eyes are shut against the marvel. Her garbed knees hastily scrape about the floor, making space. There is a delighted silence that follows with more fluttering, like a mighty curtain after a performance.

"Pardon me, court was becoming too infested," _she_ says.

 _Her_ hands are in prayer, as is the rest of _her_ , but _her_ voice is a smiling one. Sansa is definite they are not meant for the divine.

" _Congested_ ," Sansa corrects in a rushed whisper.

"Forgive me," _she_ laughs. Sansa flushes, recognising the amusement as a deliberate one.

She presses her palms tightly together, prayers a dyslexic mess. She reminds, "My lady, we pray in this court."

"I'm aware, Sansa."

And no more is said.

*

Chainmail is meant for defense. And yet Sansa cannot find a precious moment to appreciate it. There is muted pain, surely, and heat has erupted in her ears, swelling the sounds around her to distant yells.

She is struck. Father's head looks too alive to be detached from the rest of him. Perhaps it is best. From up there he can see the Narrow Sea, smell the salty air, the beckon of the coasts of Pentos. He may even look over her mother, sister, brothers.

Men bend their knees, but kings _fall_. She is sure of it. The weight of all gold makes it an all the more redeeming a fall. She always _did_ wonder what runs in the little Lannister head, flowered with crowns, crowned with flowers ( _wilted_ flowers), and an orgasmic wrenching of gut at every human misery that makes him quite weak for it.

Now she may just understand; for skulls crack as eggshells do, and she may come to love Joffrey even more from such great heights.

But her arm is caught by a bearish grip, and a rag is dragged across her burning lip. Any impulse in her is put to sleep. She forgets, for the moment, that she is the _little thing_.

But, oh, there is no shame in the little serpent thought. It comes to love her nightly, as she has come to love it.

*

"You look very much a painting, little thing. All these violets and blues."

 _Her_ voice slops over Sansa's shoulders, soft, not unlike crème. She allows a smile, lifting a curtain of water over her arms. _Her_ hands, however, betray a certain tension, gentle in their precision around the purple blossoms, a twitch every so often at Sansa's tiny gasps.

"I'd detest being hung anywhere, I think," Sansa says, so very quietly.

"Oh, love, you deserve better," _she_ consoles.

Sansa blinks. _Her_ honey words have always left a peculiar effect. It matters little to whom. Even Joffrey seems to listen, as he rarely ever does; there is a human melody in his ears. She probes at a bruise, but _she_ clasps her hand with gentle strength, and tenderly, all affections made known, scrubs at her nails, then lays a feather kiss at each knuckle.

A precarious smile appears, lips like the plucked string of a harp: "We're not delicate, Sansa. Not in these matters."

*

The sharp point of teeth rests at the curve of Sansa's neck, a marvelous kind of mercy.

"The winds must have picked the spicy draft of Dorne," _she_ says. "This heat is hardly forbearing."

"You must," but then Sansa's words are netted by sweet kisses, and she forgets. "You must be used to heat."

"I'm sweating as a maiden on her first night."

 _Her_ eyes are audacious, a light that is akin to fire makes them brazen. Sweat becomes a sheer over moon-glow skin, and there is nothing  quite as poetic as the languid shutter of eyes, of breath.

"Careful; you might sound impudent."

 _She_ laughs, "Darling, it matters little to me here."

Then _her_ grip tightens, and draws a wanton flush about the trimmed nails. It is lovely as the red of Sansa's hair, almost.

Lust has dilated the black of _her_ eyes; _she_ looks otherworldly. But Sansa's lips feel around the word  _beautiful_.

 _Her_ eyes fall to Sansa's necklace, luminous in its blue, light thrown across her throat.

"Crowns break as bones do. They are most fragile. I intend to keep it that way."

Sansa cannot define the glimmer in _her_ eyes. The intensity of it frightens her. "Hmm."

But then they are softened, patient. _She_ lightly runs her nails down Sansa's jaw, and there exists some imminent threat in those blunted nails. "You will see, little thing."

*

Her lord husband is in disquiet, immensely apprehensive and wary, as he often stares unseeingly at her and his hollow smile makes his pellucid scars twist pleasantly. _is that how outcasts look at each other?_

He offers the same cordiality to the growing amount of handmaidens and pageboys sent to their chambers. His sunken eyes look to her. She feels her throat close in defiance. Warmth seizes up her legs. Like a chase, her breath hastens. _go on, ask me._

"You have some pieces in play, do you?"

Sansa refuses to turn, lest he sees the severity of her eyes, which would surely make all tremble before them.

He adds, "The pawn has become the queen."

"Indeed, my lord."

*

"You're leaving."

Sansa's fervent evacuation is halted. Ser Dontos clambers on, hefty on his feet, seeming to have forgotten Sansa. She holds her breath.

It is impossible that _she_ possesses so much more constellations in _her_ eyes, paradoxical suns in _her_ mussed hair, oceans in the tremour of _her_ hands. When Sansa ventures forward to trap the slightest bit of _her_ in both her hands, she can feel the intensity of it all, how sincerely _she_ had come to feel for her.

 _Her_ face is of a goddess. A merciless goddess of the hunt, the wild streak in _her_ eyes that would not be contained. A goddess who shares  no earthly feelings. But Sansa knows, she _knows_.

Their kiss is light, no more than a parting gift.

"Oh you," Sansa sighs, turning her face into _her_ cheek, wishing to be drowned forever. "You did it for me."

"Mostly," comes the haughty reply.

Sansa's laugh makes the both of them tremble, and finally Sansa sees a crack.

"Perhaps," Margaery says wonderingly, and her eyes are star-bright, "in another life."

If only time had permitted.

Sansa indulges in another kiss, languid and of more potent essence, and exhales shuddery sighs, feeling the gossamer butterfly-wings of eyelashes against her cheek.

"Godspeed."

"Godspeed."

When the time would come, and the world was ripe for it, Sansa would crawl home to her.

 


End file.
